


Burning in the back of your mind

by blogyourfeelings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blogyourfeelings/pseuds/blogyourfeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly resolves to finally move on from Sherlock Holmes, but even in her sleep she cannot evade the great detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was all his fault.

 

It was him who planted the seed.

 

 _“You’re always on my mind,”_ he’d said.

______

The duvet rustled as the figure moved closer, a theory confirmed when her nose caught a familiar scent.

Another movement. The darkness heightened all the rest of her senses, and her ears strained to catch any noise, any audible indication of the person. Her skin was a more effective sensor, for she could feel the heat radiating from him on either side of her.

When a warm, rough hand touched her right shoulder, Molly tensed and made a shocked noise.

“Shhh,” came a husky murmur that sought to calm her. The hand pushed her back down onto the bed. “It’s okay.”

The deep baritone soothed her nerves and she couldn’t help but relax, slightly, and her heart slowed just a little.

Soft lips brushed her shoulder as gentle fingers stroked away a lock of hair from her cheek and a quiet sigh left her lips. Another hand traced up her side, fingertips grazing the flare of her hips up to the nip of her waist.

“Sherlock…” she said, her voice shaking.

“Molly,” he rumbled back. There was teasing in his deep tone and she wished she could see him. She imagined the way his lips would shift into a smirk and his eyes would gleam. Beauty such as his was often painful to behold, so perhaps it was a mercy he was shrouded in darkness.

Plump, warm lips brushed briefly across her own before continuing along her jawline and to her pulse. A sharp gasp escaped Molly’s lips followed by a barely suppressed moan.

 _One night,_ she bargained desperately with herself, _just one night._

Roaming fingers then danced across her sides, followed swiftly by a moist tongue trailing across her collarbone. An uncontrollable shudder swept from her fingertips to her toes. Never had her skin felt so sensitive, never before had a touch almost branded her with its intensity. The deprivation of sight had ensured that her other senses would seek to make up for it.

“Can I remove this?” a deep voice asked, hands trailing down to the clasp of her bra. Mind swimming, Molly let out a rasped whisper of permission. The sure grasp easily unfastened the clasp and swept the bra straps off her shoulders, caressing her arms on the way and leaving a path of goosebumps on her skin.

A hand shifted between the soft skin of her inner thighs, sending warm shocks straight to her nerves. This slow build up was tortuous, unbearable, almost cruel in its persistence. A hand brushed right at the front of her pants and paused right above where she needed it most. Molly arched up, desperately trying to connect with the intense heat of his hand, needing his touch more than she had ever needed anything. But he simply moved with her, refusing to grant her what her movements were clearly begging for. Molly made a muted noise of frustration and she heard Sherlock chuckle darkly in return.

“What is it, Molly?” Sherlock teased, his roaming hand still alighting sparks wherever he touched. “What do you want?”

“Please,” Molly could barely speak, her voice no more than a pleading whimper. “I just… please. I need…”

“What do you need?” he asked as his long tapered fingers now danced along the edge of her lace knickers. His lips rested between the valley of her breasts, burning hot even against her heated skin.

“You,” she said in a desperate whisper. “I need you.”

She felt his lips tug upwards. “You already have me, Molly,” he said before leaning up to place a fiery yet exceedingly loving kiss on her left breast, no doubt feeling the thrum of her heart beneath his lips.

 _I’ll never have you,_ a small part of her wanted to contest in return. Not in the way she truly coveted.

All thoughts of that nature dissolved when her pants were removed without further prompt and two hands lightly pushed at her inner thighs. A finger traced her outer folds with a gentleness and patience she hadn’t known Sherlock was capable of. It was her only warning before a warm tongue stroked just below them, soothing and inciting at the same time. Gasps and whimpers left her lips and her nails dug painfully into her palms, as soft lips teased and tasted her folds, a moist tongue flickering over her clit. He continued in that manner for longer than she could keep track of, and her body flushed with hot desire as she trembled and squirmed.

Sherlock sensed that she was edging closer and closer. The hand that was pressing her hip down onto the mattress sought her hand, entwining their fingers together. Molly’s grip tightened around his, trying to cling on as to prolong the feelings he was evoking within her. His other hand dug into the yielding flesh of her outer thigh, angling her perfectly to his liking.

“Sherlock - ” she began, but suddenly froze, releasing a broken cry and clamping her thighs around his head. It was all lights and flashes, sparks of pleasure pulsing around her body, centered from where Sherlock’s tongue continued to caress. She writhed against him, sinking deep into the mattress as she let the waves take over her. Sherlock hummed contentedly as she finished, and made one slow drag of his tongue all the way up her centre, making her shudder before going limp.

Sherlock lifted his head only slightly; she could still feel his warm breath wafting across her skin and the tickle of his curls brushing against her stomach.

Suddenly, the head reared up and Molly felt the bed creaking as he knelt up and moved away.

Fear filling her, she surged forward. She reached out into the darkness to curl a hand around his bicep. “Don’t go,” she pleaded before he could disappear completely.

Sherlock heeded her words, remaining frozen in place. “I thought…” he trailed off.

“Stay,” she said in answer.

This time, she sought out his hand, but his fingers immediately gripped hers in return, and it made her ponder who was clinging onto who.

__________

Blinding lights awakened her, the streams of yellow peeking through her curtain bringing her both relief and horror.

A dream. That’s all it had been.

It had felt so torturously real. For that, she blamed him. Her resolve had been so iron-clad, even the supposed return of Moriarty hadn’t shaken it. Their strange friendship - relationship, acquaintance, _whatever_ \- had to come to an end. She didn’t count. She didn’t matter. She hadn’t even crossed his mind when he thought he was destined to die.

Outside of the labs of St Barts, she was done with Sherlock Holmes.

 _You’re always on my mind,_ he’d said.

It seemed he was bound to follow her even in her dreams.


	2. Though I Try My Heart Stays Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely and encouraging comments, you lot are the best :)
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter!

_“Please, Sherlock. Just go.“_

 

_“Molly…”_

 

_“I’m glad you’re getting to stay in London, I really am. But it doesn’t change anything.”_

_____

The first thing she noticed was how naked she was, which was almost completely, only a silken robe hanging loosely off her shoulders. She sat on a stiff leather couch, her nipples perky from the chill. Her bare feet rested against the the wooden coffee table and in her hand was tatty, dog-eared book.

The fire hissed and flickered on the other side of the living room, alighting the familiar mantelpiece with an orange glow; a skull residing in its rightful home, bookshelves stocked with a length and breath of topics at either side.

‘Well this is certainly a nice surprise to come home to," a deep, honey slicked voice greeted.

The most surprising thing was his sudden presence in her mind no longer startled her. She just played along, drifting wherever her mind saw fit to take her.

She smirked at the obvious effect her nakedness was having on him. “How was the case?” she asked casually, eyes lingering on the faded ink of the book still clutched in her hands. The Evolution of Stars. Her lips tugged even further upwards.

“It was only a four,” he sighed, and that was explanation enough. With his coat and scarf stripped off, and shoes kicked off, he was left in only a pale blue shirt and his usual well tailored black trousers. The top few buttons of the shirt were undone and his hair had been tousled by the wind.

He was wildly beautiful.

He grinned when he caught her silently gawking. “What are you reading?” he prompted.

“Just about the boring solar system,” she said with humour in her voice. “Nothing you would be interested in.”

Stalking up to the couch in confident strides, he sank down into the space next to her. His hands did not reach out to touch her, but her skin tingled in anticipation. “Try me,” he challenged.

“You want me to read to you?"

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Like this?” she asked as she looked down at her bared body.

“Of course,” he smirked.

Pursing her lips to restrain a smile, she opened up the book. “Where should I start from?”

“Wherever you’d like, love.”

An ache bloomed in her chest and her head snapped up at the strange term of endearment, but he was too busy rolling up his shirtsleeves to catch her reaction.

“Okay,” she said, confused, leafing through the book. She found a random page and thought that was as good a place as any to start.

"Stars are in constant conflict with themselves. The collective gravity of all the mass of a star pulls it inwards. If there was nothing to stop it…” Molly read aloud, pausing briefly to look up to see Sherlock staring at her, his eyes analyzing her body, his tongue sliding over his lower lip.

She shuddered, and continued, slightly distracted. “If they was nothing to stop it the star would just continue collapsing for millions of years until it became its smallest possible size; a neutron star.” A sound caused her to look up. He was undoing the zip on his trousers.

“Keep reading.”

Oh, he was cruel. Clever, but cruel.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him slip off his trousers, pants and socks, freeing his cock, hard and long, and he began stroking it slowly with his hand, his bottom lip caught tightly between his teeth, still observing her.

“Go on,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing pink. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the rosy apple of her cheek. The sensuality of such an innocent and chaste gesture struck her.

Skipping ahead slightly, now feeling extremely flustered, Molly began to read again. “But there is a pressure pushing back against the gravitational collapse of the star;…” she trailed off when Sherlock’s palm grasped around her breast, his thumb grazing lightly against her nipple. She croaked out, “light.”

With that she turned to him, his dark, enigmatic gaze holding her entranced for a moment. Ascending her head, she brushed a feather-light kiss against his parted lips. His hands stilled their movement on his own body, and hers, to grab a hold of her hips and haul her onto his lap.

Instinctively Molly moved to put the book down so her hands would be free to explore, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist, shaking his head. “You’re not done with that.”

He moved his hands to her waist and allowed her to shift her knees to seat herself on either side of his narrow hips. His fingers gripped the silk at her shoulders, slowly stealing sight of her skin as he peeled off the robe, dropping it and letting it pool on the floor with his own clothing.

“I think you should keep telling me about the stars,” he said as laid a burning kiss on her neck.

With her breath laboured slightly, she leaned into him, and grinned slyly, “Or I could make you see stars,” she said as she wriggled in his lap.

Sherlock groaned, but whether it was evoked by her movement or her joke, she wasn’t sure. “Molly,” he said in warning.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Don’t make jokes.”

He grinned and tilted up his head to peck her lips. “At least not while I’m trying to seduce you.”

Molly bit down a beaming smile. “Oh so that’s what you’re doing?” she said as she laughed lightly.

Sherlock’s teeth bit at her collarbone in retribution of her words, before soothing the red skin with an open mouthed kiss. Ripping the book from her hand, he tossed it somewhere across the room. Then, he pulled her closer with a tug at her waist. He caught her smiling lips in a feverish kiss while positioning her hips right above where he wanted her most, but ultimately left her in control of her own seduction, waiting patiently for her to make the final move.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, she raised herself slightly and tipped his cock into her entrance, lowering back down slowly. His whole body trembled when she sat down completely, with him fully inside her.

His hands gripped her waist again, and he began to bounce her, moving in and out of her as small gasps escaped her lips.

“Look,” he urged her to glance downwards, to watch him slide in and out of her slick heat, and the sight of their intimacy made her stomach clench.

Knowing if her gaze stayed rooted to where they were joined she would come all too quickly, she averted her eyes, settling back on Sherlock’s face. He was flushed, rough, his hair in his eyes, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, his dress shirt hanging open as neither of them had bothered to remove it. It was possible that he had never looked lovelier.

Deliriously aroused, she threaded her fingers through his hair as she let herself sink into the insatiable feelings he evoked. Only him. No other man had ever made her feel like this. Sure they’d loved her, laughed with her, given her pleasure, but there something primal about her connection to Sherlock - the entwinement of physical and emotional love. She loved him soul deep, and she couldn’t articulate it in any other way than that.

She yearned to be loved like this. Desperately.

Christ, her and Tom had never even had a chance, did they? The love she had with Tom had been sweet and safe, but she had never felt consumed like this. This was power and vulnerability, control and recklessness, pleasure and pain. It was everything.

He was everything.

“You okay?” she heard Sherlock say, his eyes gazing up at her from between her breasts, and she knew he was close to the end. If his increasing speed wasn’t an indication, the muttered curses he was repeating in between gasps of air was definitely telling.

“I wish… I wish…" she managed to sputter, trying to maintain her last scraps of control – _oh, oh, oh,_ her peak was coming any second now. Instead of carefully formed words, she just spilled out her fears, “This is just a dream!”

“That’s up to you, actually,” he grunted, and then cut himself off with a strained cry of pleasure that met her own.

He slammed into her and she arched her back, digging her nails deep into the skin of his back. When a searching fingertip scraped across her swollen, pulsing clit, a keen ripped from her throat. He jerked against her body as she felt his warmth spill out inside of her, mixing with her own arousal, his sweat with hers. They panted against the sticky leather. All she could hear for a moment was their ragged breaths and creaking furniture.

“What do you mean, it’s up to me?”

He didn’t answer at first, instead planting a soft kiss to her tilted head. When his head lifted back up, she lovingly swept away the curls that had stuck to his forehead. 

“Sherlock?” she pushed, panicking that he might slip away before she could get her answer.

“You’ll see,” he said. A small smile reached the corners of his lips. “You always do.”

________

She sighed deeply into the cold lab air, bemoaning another restless night. After she’d woken, the sickening lead feeling in her stomach wouldn’t leave, so any chance of some more much needed kip evaded her.

“Bad day, was it?” a voice asked.

She startled away from the lab countertop. That voice, the one she had grown used to in her sleep, but her waking hours had been deprived of it of late - stupidly - by her own choice.

“Sorry,” he said, remembering himself. His mouth pursed in apology, hands clasping and eyes paler and sadder looking than she remembered.

They’d never set any rules within their working relationship - she’d told him that she was willing to still help him with anything that required her pathology expertise. It wouldn’t have been fair to ban him from Barts as she had done with her flat - the place had been his as long as it had been hers. Their home away from home.

“It’s okay,” she said with fake cheer. Her mouth went dry as she looked at him under the bright overheads that casted an ethereal light over his halo of curls. A vivid clarity filled her; of the way his lips dragged along her collarbone and along her jaw, how his curls had tickled against her neck. He was wearing a blue shirt, and it only served to remind her how the material had brushed against her nipples as she had rocked against him.

“You’ll see,” he’d said, but she didn’t.

All she saw was a man she was only meant to have in her wildest - and surprisingly erotic - dreams. It was never going to be a reality.

Sherlock, real life Sherlock, was hovering in her peripheral, waiting and watching. “I’ll come back later,” he said quickly before spinning on his heel and racing off out of the swinging doors before she could even so much as open her mouth.

Hysterical laughter tried to bubble up from her chest, but it died away before it could make its way up her throat. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. Instead, she let out another tiny sigh into the empty air, and said in a tone that was achingly sad, _“You never leave.”_


	3. It Goes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! Thanks for all your comments, they keep me encouraged and I'm really grateful for them all.

Hope dwindled that her dreams were one last attempt to cling on to a Sherlock that did not exist. That her mind was conjuring him as a coping mechanism.

It was clear these were not the fantasies of a lust driven woman.

They were a painful cry for what might have been, and with each one, Molly's resolve grew weaker.

 

* * *

 

A large warm hand rested at the small of Molly’s back, guiding her in the waltz they were sweeping across the dance floor. Well, an improvised dance floor; the space in the living room of 221B that Sherlock had cleared a path for. The detective was very clearly up to something if the gleam in his eyes was anything to go by. Her questioning gaze turned back to her dance partner whose blue-green eyes shone back at her as he tightened his arm around her waist.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly, his voice low and in keeping with the romantic setting.

The music in the background floated from the speaker sat on his desk, filling the room with its gentle sound. “Of course,” she said in response. Her lips quirked upwards. “I like all your compositions, Sherlock.”

“I know,” he said cheekily, his lips grazing against her temple. They continued to sway with the music. “I wrote it especially for you.”

Her brows raised in reply. “And what have I done to deserve such a gift?” she said with a wry grin.

He smirked. "Nothing in particular.” 

“Nothing in particular,” she mimicked. “Should I be expecting more gifts? Perhaps a bit of poetry?”

Sherlock chuckled, a lovely warm noise rising from his chest. “I’m afraid not. Best leave the poetry writing to John.”

She hummed in agreement. “Yeah, wouldn’t want everyone to know Sherlock Holmes has gone soft.”

The hand at her waist pinched her side. He gave her a reproachful look. “I have not…” he said his next words with undisguised disgust, _“gone soft.”_

“If you say so,” she said with a raised brow. The beginnings of smile crept at the corners of her lips. She just couldn’t seem to contain it. It was ever present when Sherlock was around.

His hand drifted to trace the arch of her back, and a shiver ran down her spine - one Molly tried not to let out. Judging by his smile, though, Sherlock had noticed. For a moment, they held eye contact, Sherlock holding her captive with his beguiling gaze. His eyes darkened to a cerulean blue, and he moved even closer to her, letting go of her hand to cup her chin. Tilting his head down in one swift motion, he crashed his lips to hers.

His mouth plundered; ravaging her, claiming her lips with an added aggression she wasn't accustomed to. It wasn't a kiss that teased or taunted, or brought a tingling warmth that led on to simmering passion. This kiss burned hot against her lips and throughout her body. It seared its way into her. Helpless moans sounded in her ears and it took several moments for her to realise they were her own. Sherlock nipped and nibbled at her, her mouth bruising from his efforts, and at last Molly’s hands moved to clench around his broad shoulders, needing the support as his momentum made her lose balance.

At her touch, he let out a moan, pulling her impossibly closer, lifting her up off the ground. Her legs wrapped around his hips as his hands gripped her thigh and lower back. Under her, she felt an unmistakable hardness and needing relief, she ground on it. Sherlock groaned this time, his kiss deepening, his tongue darting past her lips.

“Bedroom,” she croaked out between kisses.

Sherlock, still holding Molly in his arms, began to maneuver down the hallway to his bedroom. He laughed as Molly’s fingers stumbled over the buttons of his shirt, grinning up at her warmly. Huffing, she cut off his grin with another heated kiss. They began half-stumbling, half-kissing their way down the hall. For a moment, they got caught up in kissing again, savouring the opportunity to enjoy and explore each other.

With speed and grace innate of a Holmes, Sherlock swung her around and pinned her against the bathroom door to kiss her thoroughly, his hands holding her firmly against him. She let out a moan of approval as their bodies merged together. Molly, desperate and yearning for what she knew was inevitable, let her legs fall down so that she could attack his belt. She seemed to have more success when it came to getting his trousers open, and she quickly hooked her fingers into the waistline, pulling them down along with his pants in mere seconds.

A hot curl of desire ran through her body as she dropped down to her knees, brushing kisses against his skin to taunt him. He swore loudly as Molly drew her hands slowly up his thighs, but his eyes never left the sight of her on her knees before him.

“No,” Sherlock said, but his voice wavered. “I want… I -”

Rather than stutter through an explanation, he gently tugged her upper arms and helped her to her feet. He kicked away his trousers and pants before hurriedly removing his shirt and leaving everything there in a heap on the floor. She laughed at his eagerness as he wrenched the skirt of her cotton dress up and over her head and swooped down to kiss her again before the garment had even hit the floor.

The heat of his velvety skin burned through her hands as they wandered the warm expanse of his back, loving the feel of bone and flesh and muscle. A shudder ripped through her at the husky chuckle that rumbled in the naked chest that was pressed against hers.

Her nipples ached for contact from his nimble fingers and Molly whimpered at the mild caress of the breeze in the drafty flat. Sharing the honours, Molly unclasped her bra and Sherlock slid the straps of her shoulders, but at a pace far too tauntingly slow for her liking.

In a much quicker movement, he stole a hold of her waist and dragged her into his bedroom, and they both scrambled on to the bed like a pair of eager teenagers, hands unable to stop their roaming journeys up and down their partner’s bodies.

Taking the lead, Sherlock knelt up between her parted knees. The brilliant combination of his wily smirk and the shadowy room cast a seductive darkness over his chiseled features. His fingertips danced up her inner thighs, wedging them even further apart. She arched in response, murmuring a complaint when he skipped over where she ached most, going instead to the edge of her dampened knickers.

“Patience, Molly.” He smirked, stroking his fingers just above her knickers.

He was blatantly teasing her - retribution, perhaps for her earlier goading - and she could only lay back and let herself be subject to his form of exquisite torture.

Lifting her slightly, Sherlock drew the frilly pants down her thighs and off. By then her skin was so over sensitised that even the barest touch of the cotton sheets fanned the flames of her desire. Another moan left her lips as the cold air played over her clit, providing only the lightest contact where she needed much more. Changing tact, Sherlock dove upwards and sharp keen pierced the air when his hot mouth clasped onto her nipple, his fingers teasing and toying with the other.

Twisting in his arms, consumed with desire, Molly pleaded for more with an arch of her back. “Oh, please," she said as finally managed to vocalise her desires, a lump of frustration coming to her throat. “Sherlock, please.”

She sunk her nails into the skin of Sherlock’s back, losing all patience and becoming wild with lust. The lovely pressure of his hardness against where she needed it most was maddening. It was a new experience for her; having a partner who could take control, who knew how to bring her pleasure by pure instinct. It seemed he knew when to tease her, when to be rough or soft, when to go fast or slow.

Sherlock took heed off her pleas, positioning himself on his knees, gripping her thighs and tilting her hips so she could meet him at the right angle for him to slide his swollen cock inside her with ease. When he finally did, Molly edged her hips upwards, attempting to bury him more deeply within her. She was aching for him; to fill every inch of her and bring her to highs she couldn’t imagine.

Sighs and groans were the only sounds echoing around the room for a long moment. Molly writhed against the sheets, her head thrown back as he thrusted, sparks shooting through her body as he hit the perfect spot. Sherlock panted, his eyelids drooping as his heavy lust-filled gaze fell down on her.

She held herself together somehow; her mouth only releasing small whimpers at Sherlock’s frustratingly slow pace, even as pleas threatened to burble up from her dry throat. No, she was determined this would very much be a mutual victory. She would not concede, especially as this little contest of wills was so pleasurable for the both of them.

His thrusts began to grow more erratic and quickened, losing their earlier rhythm, telling her that perhaps Sherlock was going to give her what she desired of his own volition. A finger circled across her clit; one last attempt to have her squirming and begging before they would both tumble over the edge.

A blinding light was growing behind her closed eyelids, pleasure rushing through every nerve in her body with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. With a desperate cry of his name, she reached her climax, her body pulsing with ebbs and flows of delightful pleasure. Above her, she only just managed to catch Sherlock’s expression screwing up in ecstasy before he slumped down beside her, nuzzling into her breast, embracing the tingling aftershocks of their orgasms together.

Their gazes met and Molly could not help her grin. It widened along with his. He huffed out a laugh against her damp skin, kissing right above her still pounding heart. He looked beautiful; curls in a wild disarray, his skin blushing pink, his eyes light but oh so warm as they peered up at her as if she was the greatest mystery any man could ever encounter. In that small moment, just with her, all his sharpness and cutting edges were softened. A feeling of peace swept through her, ridding her of fear and longing and sadness.

“Fantasy,” she murmured quietly, the tender image of them flushed and smiling and _adoring_ fading into nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Molly.”

The words appeared garbled, as if she was hearing them from under water and they could not quite penetrate into her mind.

_“Molly.”_

This time the voice was sharp enough to pierce through her trance. Head reeling to the source of the voice, she smiled apologetically and said to her blonde haired friend, “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Ignoring her question, Mary pursed her lips into a thin line. “Are you all right?“ she asked. Mary’s tone suggested she already had an opinion on that subject and Molly could hardly blame her.

The effects of her dreams were becoming harder to hide.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her fingers gripping tightly around her mug, her eyes watching the liquid swirling rather than face her friend’s gaze.

“He does that too,” Mary said. When Molly’s brow creased in confusion, Mary elaborated. “Sherlock,” she winced even as she said it. Everyone had made an effort to skirt around mentioning him since Molly had decided to cut ties with the world's only consulting detective. There were no more shared anecdotes from Greg and John about their cases, or Mrs Hudson ringing her up to bemoan the state of 221B.

Molly tried not to flinch, but by the guilty look that flashed across Mary’s face, she failed miserably. “I’m sorry, Molly. I don’t want to interfere but I don’t like seeing you like this. Or Sherlock.”

“Like what?” Molly asked sullenly.

“Miserable,” Mary said gently. Carefully, she tread in frightful waters, “He misses you.”

Molly felt a rush of guilt under her Mary’s unwavering stare. From all her signals, Sherlock wasn’t as unaffected by her absence as she would have presumed. She had always reckoned he was sensitive soul as often the coldest people were the easiest to wound. She hadn't ever imagined  _she_ would ever have the power to hurt him.

Molly’s lips ticked upwards in a weak smile. “I miss him too,” she said, but the smile quickly faded. “But I just can't forgive him this time. He was going to leave and he didn't even bother to say goodbye," she said, and she was proud of how steady her voice was. Because it still hurt, still stung fiercely. It was a pain that laid dormant only to return with a vengeance each time she thought of him. It was the agony of unrequited devotion. "I love him...and he is obviously never going to feel the same way. And I tried, being with Tom, being Sherlock's friend and it didn't work," she paused, stopping to let out a bitter laugh. "It was doomed from the start. So I have to find another way to move on. I have to at least  _try."_

Mary opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, pressing her lips tightly shut. Her shoulders dipped, but a nod of understanding showed her reluctant acceptance for Molly’s decision. Worry seated deep in the blue pools of her eyes and it appeared it was not just for Molly.

“It’ll be okay,” Molly said as her smile wavered yet again. To reassure her concerned friend, she spoke aloud her own sacred mantra - whether it was a statement of truth she had yet to discover - "I just need time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch.
> 
> This one hurt a lot to write, so I hope you guys like it? Let me know. I promise there will be more 'real life' Sherlock in the next chapter because I hate keeping these two apart for too long. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Too far in his footsteps stray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me over on tumblr, you'll know my lack of updates is the result of my own clumsiness. I broke my middle finger, so my typing speed is painfully slow at the minute. And this chapter was the longest so far, hence the wait.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

_“I meant what I said. All of it. You do count. You do matter. I understand your decision… I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. I’ve never deserved your presence in my life, however grateful I am for it. I just… I want you to know that.”_

_Softly, sadly, she had said, “Thank you.”_

_“You’re always on my mind, Molly," he’d said, his hand resting on the door handle of her flat. Reluctant to make that last move, because stepping out of the door would mean a loss of insurmountable value for them both. Parting words were supposed to be pretty, but Sherlock's were burned by grief. “Always.”_

At the time, Molly had dismissed his words. She was only a tiny spoke in a large, intricate wheel, and he would not need her to roll on. 

 

* * *

 

A soft call of her name was whispered in her ear, and she smiled but ignored it, choosing instead to burrow further into the enticing warmth of her pillow. A hand traced up her bare back. 

“Molly,” the voice persisted, followed by the sweep of a moist tongue along her earlobe. It was hard to ignore the shudder that ran down her spine. Beneath her ear, she felt the vibrations of an accompanying laugh. “Molly,” he said, just a tiny bit firmer.  

“What?” she asked, face scrunched in an expression of sheer annoyance. Stubbornly, her eyes remained closed.   

“You’re going to be late,” the chest rumbled again, its deep voice tinged with laughter.  
  
She shrugged her shoulders; well, as best she could considering the fact that they were trapped under a muscled arm.    
  
“Since when have you cared about that?” she snorted, voice muffled by the pillow against her mouth.“You love showing up at my office and ‘distracting’ me for however long you see fit? Mike almost burst in on us the other day.”  
  
“Yes, well.” Sherlock was characteristically unapologetic. “I got bored.”  
  
Indignation caused Molly to turn over to face the dark-haired man, who was indolently reclined against the splayed pillows. “You are just…” she started off, shaking her head. Her eyes were alight with affectionate irritation and laughter. Beside her, Sherlock propped his head up on one hand, a wide grin on his handsome face. Maddened by his unabashed smirk, she seized a pillow and pounded him with it. “A complete git,” she finished.  
  
Laughing, he fended off the blows. Her giggles soon followed, though they were breathy from the force of her blows. Sherlock’s gaze fell to her shaking breasts, her nipples hardened from the colder air and visible through her thin tank-top.  
  
All of a sudden, before Molly could react, she was flat on her back. Gasping at the sudden movement, she gazed up at the smirking man above her.

“Never thought you the violent type, Molly,” he said as his brows raised. His lips tilted upwards. “Though I must say I rather like it.”  
  
Any quick witted reply of hers was lost as Sherlock swooped down to press his lips to hers in a slow, languid kiss. A warm buzz travelled through her, causing her to hum and arch into him in a way that was more about affection than sex. He pulled back, eyes bright, smiling softly as his thumb trailed a path down her cheek.  
  
There was nothing she wanted more than to pull him close; to stay in this little condensed world where they could lie together with such ease.  
  
But she couldn’t.  
  
Trying to banish such thoughts, she kissed him again, this time with a tad more fervour. Her fingers carded through his messy hair, loving how soft and springy his curls were. Pulling away, she pecked his lips once more. “I need to get ready,” she said.  
  
Sherlock, hovering above, kept her pinned to mattress with his stare.  
  
“Don’t even think about it,” Molly warned, recognising the sly glint in his eye. It always indicated that she was about to lose whatever clothing she had on and lose track of the next hour or so.  
  
His response was to lean in closer. Sherlock’s warm fingers brushed against the skin of her side, edging up her top as he did so. Shifting uncomfortably, heat pooling in her belly, Molly scowled at him, though she tilted her head further back into the pillows when his fingers reached the underside of her breast.  
   
“I mean it,” she persisted. But her tone indicated anything but.  

Her breath hitched as a hand travelled downwards to part her thighs.

“Let’s see about that, shall we?” he said in a deep voice that warmed her to the core.  
  
Her resolve was tossed away along with her clothing.  
  
Sherlock pressed lazy kisses to her neck as her hands roamed his angular back, familiar with and unbothered by the scars that were etched there. Her body was pliant underneath his, and he nudged his lower half against her, teasing. Sherlock removed a hand from her side to guide himself, slowly pressing into her heat, making sure she was ready for him. The low moan Molly made resonated through the room as he tried to keep his thrusts shallow. He hissed as he finally filled her, his eyes darting from where they were joined, back to her face, always eager to read every flicker of emotion.  
  
Molly let out a heavy sigh into the pillow and Sherlock took that as a sign to move. Sherlock pressed feather light kisses on her shoulder blades, nuzzling into the ridges, as he continued his sleepy pace. A pressure low in Molly's abdomen started to grow, a warm, floaty feeling that buzzed through every nerve.  
  
To further her pleasure, Sherlock crept a hand downwards, pressing gently against her clit with the pad of his finger. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, as his finger massaged in steady circles.  
  
And still, she yearned for more.  
  
“Please, Sherlock, more.” Her voice was a low gravel, still thick from sleep, and Sherlock groaned at the sound.  
  
Unable to deny her, he quickened his pace, both his fingers and thrusts speeding up, building up intensity. Her fingers sifted through his hair, gripping the strands tighter and tighter as her pleasure heightened. She closed her eyes and focused on the warmth of his skin against hers and the rambling nothings he murmured as kissed and licked her breasts.  
  
Trying to get her to surrender all attempts at control, he said, “Let go, Molly.”  
  
His fingers rubbed against her clit roughly — a few more times was all it took — and she came, wailing his name and shuddering, legs wrapping tightly around the back of his thighs.  
  
He caught her mouth in another kiss before he gave a muffled shout as his hips snapped and jerked into her, and she felt the warmth of him filling her. He collapsed onto her with a heavy sigh, pulling back slightly to withdraw from her. So that they were both facing each other, Sherlock shifted to allow one of his thighs to wedge between hers, and moved her leg to sling it over his hip. Sherlock smoothed a few unruly hairs away from her face before pressing a light kiss to her nose.  
  
“Good morning,” he said, a smug smile spreading across his face.  
  
He proceeded to press light kisses all over the side of her face until she was rolling over to get away from him. Sherlock quickly followed her, crowding her into the mattress as she was once again on her back, smearing sloppy kisses onto her cheeks.  
  
“Sherlock, stop it,” she laughed underneath his wet lips, pushing ineffectively at his chest. “I need to get ready.”  
  
Sherlock stopped for a few moments, taking in the radiant smile on her face before capturing it with his lips. “Fine,” he sighed.  
  
As ever, Sherlock surprised her. He hauled her off the bed, his hands wrapped around her thighs, and instinctively Molly’s arms encircled his neck as she kept her legs tightly crossed at his hips. Taking note of her surprise, he grinned in the boyish manner she loved so much and said, "Just enough time to make you a nice breakfast. You do have a long day.”  
  
Somehow, with threat of Mrs Hudson walking in on them starkers, she managed to convince him to at least allow them both to slip on a dressing gown.  
  
She marvelled at how unpredictable he was - in the best possible way - as he dragged her towards the kitchen. As they went, both of them were beaming at each for no other reason than the instinctive happiness they felt upon looking at each other.  
  
It was a natural, untaught feeling to look at someone and just _know._ It wasn’t hard to find to a fleeting comfort, or an easy fix, but to discover an innate happiness born of a love for someone, or something, was much more difficult.  
  
When they finally reached the kitchen, Sherlock pulled out a chair out for her, ever the - occasional - gentleman. Giggling, she took her seat. A warm feeling began to take residence in her stomach as she watched him doing the simplest tasks - plucking a bowl of fruit and some yoghurt from the fridge, buttering toast with an unnecessary precision. He would hate it if she ever said it out loud - but he was immensely adorable.  
  
It was such simple picture; the two of them, eating breakfast, the pale morning light casting a glow on their flushed skin, laughing at the funny headlines of the morning newspapers.  
  
It was an easy, unattainable bliss.

* * *

 The Watson’s had decided to throw a party in celebration of their first year as a married couple. A tumultuous first year admittedly, but they had gotten through it, stronger and more in love than ever. It was to be a simple gathering at their house, a small group of family and friends, a few drinks and a barbecue if the weather co-operated. Molly considered it the perfect opportunity to enjoy time with her friends, unwind with a few glasses of wine and listen to Greg’s funny stories from the Yard, or lend an ear to Mrs Hudson to bemoan her latest failed romance.

The threat that Sherlock could appear at any moment left her unruffled. The exceedingly awkward encounter at St Barts was only time they’d spoken in months - though she’d thought she’d caught glimpses of him in the lab, but she never could quite trust her own mind. It betrayed her in her sleep, so why not when she was awake too?

It was blessed relief when he did finally show up; just as Mrs Hudson was half way through her third sherry and the tale of how she and local greengrocer had recently met and how lovely it was to get out of the flat and away from Sherlock’s ‘mood swings.’

One thing Mrs Hudson lacked was subtlety.

It was quite obvious what the Watsons' true intentions were for this small, intimate gathering. The hopeful looks on their faces said it all.

Sherlock passed by with a muttered greeting, hastily retreating into the garden where Greg and Mike were attempting to barbecue an array of sausages. Mary shot John a pointed look, and the doctor scrambled after him, leaving the three ladies to return to their chattering.

It didn’t annoy her that they had all schemed together. In fact, she was touched that they cared enough to do so. They wanted her to be happy and no matter what lines she fed to them, they could see through her well intentioned lies.

However, it became apparent as the afternoon faded into evening their plan was destined to fail.

Molly kept herself busy all afternoon. To stop herself from thinking of Sherlock outside and how she wished she could grab him and drag him back to her flat to re-enact every sordid detail of her erotic dreams, she cooed over Beth Watson and babbled to her until the little girl gifted her with the cutest watery grins.

Sally Donovan offered her refuge when everyone gathered inside once the unusually hot weather had noticeably cooled. The policewoman seemed to sense something was amiss with her and kept their conservation flowing as they sat huddled on the Watson’s couch, ensuring her eyes were averted from Sherlock in the kitchen, though his close proximity had her stomach in knots.

Her efforts were all to no avail.

She had nipped to the loo upstairs, needing a calm moment to think about whether she should just give up and go talk to him. Make everyone happy, lessen the awkwardness she had created.

As she made her way down the stairs, still undecided, she saw a familiar figure heading towards the door and her decision was made for her by the abrupt question that blurted from her mouth.

“Leaving?”  
  
He stiffened; she could see it from the sudden tensing of his back. It took a moment for him to recover. Sherlock whirled around, startled by the sound of her voice. “Yes,” he said, though he sounded unsure. “Parties are… not really my area.”

“Hmm,” Molly hummed in agreement. Her feet stayed firmly at the bottom step, leaning against the banister for support. That, and it kept a decent distant between them, giving her a small semblance of control over the situation. “Good at sneaking out when no-one is looking, though.”

“Clearly not,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than usual. He too, looked unlike himself. His coat hung limply by his side - the wool would be far too stifling, even with the early summer temperatures cooling. His hair was perfectly styled, his clothing pristine, but his shoulders lay slumped, his head bowed and it made him appear… broken. His heavy sigh did nothing to dispel his weary appearance. “Never been very good at goodbyes.”

Molly bit down on her lip. “No,” she agreed, not letting him off the hook. The constant flutter of nerves in her stomach reaffirmed to her that this was all real, not another one of her fantasies that would have her waking to a cold, empty bed.  
  
Sherlock's body twisted back in the direction of the door and she presumed he’d flee without another word, and they go back to fleeting glimpses of each other in the morgue. Instead, he turned back to her. “That’s not an excuse for not giving you a goodbye. I cannot say I foresaw Mycroft’s plan to ensure my return. I thought I was going to die and I chose not to give the goodbye you deserve and there is no excuse for that. I just… I just couldn’t,” he said, his voice giving way to its trembling. “I was a coward, Molly. You have always been the one I could not say goodbye to.”  
  
Those big, dark eyes glimmered up at her in the dim doorway. An ache bloomed fiercely in her chest, stealing any words she might have tried to say. His confession shook her completely off balance.  
  
“I miss you desperately,” he continued, unworried by her silence. In fact, it seemed to allow him to let out a stream of words, unspoken truths spilling out without restraint.  “I thought I knew what it would be like to be without your presence… but it is much worse than I anticipated."

Before, he had shown her bursts of raw emotion, but this felt entirely different.   There was lump in her throat, restricting her ability to vocalise her shell-shocked reaction, only managing to form his name. "Sherlock," she choked out.

"I am not asking you to allow me back into your life, Molly. I have tried, many times, to come up with a single sound argument that I deserve such a thing… and I couldn’t," he admitted gravely. His gaze dropped to floor. The colour leached from his face, leaving it even paler than usual.

Swallowing hard, heart now beating an uncomfortable rhythm against her vocal cords, Molly’s nails dug hard into her sweaty palms. Stark despair almost buckled her, and her hand flung out to clutch, white-knuckled, at the banister. She took the small step onto level ground, trying to find some solidity when she felt everything was crumbling beneath her.  
  
Still her voice was trapped under an avalanche of confusion and shock and disbelief. After the release of his anguish there was an odd silence that suffocated the narrow space they were stuck within.  
  
“I -” she began, only for her words to fade out. _I miss you too… I dream of you…_  
  
No such words surfaced.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said softly, sensing her struggle. He took a large stride, closing the physical gap between them. It was the closest they’d been in months. And somehow, he’d never felt further away. He smiled, but it was a weak and weary version of the one she loved. “Good -”  
  
“Don’t,” she said desperately.

The mere thought of him saying goodbye to her made her gut wrench. It had never been about the goodbye – it was the fact he was just going to disappear from her life without so much as a text. She never wanted the goodbye, she wanted the sentiment behind it. It was that feeling - the burning betrayal - that had her hesitant to reach out to him, tell him it was all okay, that they could forget this and have the relationship they had before. Words spoken at the right time in the right way were lovely for a moment, but without actions to reinforce their truth, they were meaningless.  

"Good night, Molly,” he said instead, seemingly aware of the war that raged within her. The disappointment and hurt and anger battling with the love that was never willing to surrender. It had been her choice to extract herself from his presence, but he had respected her wishes above his own needs, and that had helped dim some of the resentment she felt towards him.

Sherlock paused for a moment, he too at conflict with himself, before his head dipped down, his lips bestowing the briefest kiss to her cheek. Her eyes did not slip shut as they had done when he'd previously shown her physical affection, but only because she was too terrified to let him out of her sight. When he withdrew, his glassy eyes roved over her face as if to memorise her delicate features.

And then he was gone with a few strides and the swing of a door, out of her reach once again.

Her feet remained rooted to the spot for an age, her mind jumbled and disorientated momentarily. It was astounding, Sherlock was a proud man, notoriously deriding any shows of sentiment, and yet he had laid his heart bare for her.

That left her with a confounding problem - the one that had plagued her for as long as Sherlock had been a part of her life - was this only more false hope, more fantasies that were never to be? Was he leading her down a road that could only lead to more anguish for her?

Or it could be a startling revelation after years of placiding herself with dull men and a half-hearted engagement that had promised her a safe future.

It could be the opportunity that had been slipping through her finger tips all these years; late night experiments, and mysterious smiles and cheek kisses, solidifying into something she could grasp onto, something real and tangible and with infinite potential.

Her thoughts coalesced and formed into one single, terrifying overriding thought - perhaps Sherlock Holmes was not as unobtainable as she had once presumed.

There were questions still to be answered, however painful they may be. Explanations and motives and feelings to be uncovered. This would require immense bravery to pursue, but Molly Hooper was no coward.

To seek the truth, Molly would have to lay her fate in Sherlock Holmes’ hands and hope he would not let her fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeek! Let me know what you all think.


	5. Back off loneliness, and hello tenderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't a reunion because they'd never said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been so long my loves!
> 
> Seriously, writers who work full time and update regularly, I salute you guys. I, unfortunately, cannot do both it appears.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the final chapter. I'm sad to see this end, but excited to see what you think.

There were no more dreams.

Come nightfall, she only saw snippets from the past - riding crops, red lipstick, body bags and a headstone inscribed with the name Sherlock Holmes.

Pieces of the relationship she’d hoped distance and time would eradicate.

But their past couldn’t be erased from her mind. He was part of her for eternity, woven into her being, her past, and maybe, if she choose to allow him to be, her future.

_____

Her frustration built up over the week.

He didn't come to her - continuing to honour her request for space - and she knew if she wanted the situation to change between them, she would have to go to him. There were a million reasons why she shouldn't, but her mind still clung to that grief stricken man who'd confessed he missed her. That man _needed_ her, and that seemed to override all in her mind.

Her flat and 221B seem tinged with the bitterness of their former arguments. She was not sure she could say what she needed to without them being on neutral ground.

She had discovered his deception at Baker Street. The pieces had been strung together from a hushed conversation between the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had been denying that saving Sherlock’s life with his cunning and quick pulled together Moriarty ploy was driven by sentiment. It was a neccesity he claimed - he couldn’t allow the second smartest mind in the country to be sent off to Eastern Europe to die, could he? Certainly not when there were still so many criminals lurking, waiting for the opportune moment to wreak havoc on Great Britain.

And their confrontation had occurred in her home, when he chased her down and met her fury straight on.

_“You lied to me.”_

_Sherlock had stared at her for a long moment, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “I never -”_

_“You said you would have been in Serbia for six months. That’s not the same as you saying you were going to die there! Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”_

_She’d known the answer was no._

Fate presented a solution.

St Bart’s - his home away from home, her livelihood and sanctuary - was the obvious choice she hadn't thought of. A place that wasn’t his or hers. It was.. _theirs._

It was a surprise to see him in the lab downstairs, peering over a corpse, mouth drawn in a frown as his eyes scanned for deductions to catalog in his mind. He was quiet and solemn, his shoulders dipped and his brow drawn downwards. Normally, he was more animated in his experiments, noting each observation with an enthusiasm that even Molly could not match. Now his movements seemed to robotic, as though he was passing through the motions, numb to the world around him.

It was fight or flight time for Molly.

It would be hostile terrain she was entering into; there would exhausting hills to overcome, dangerous potholes to avoid, but perhaps in the end, she would be rewarded with a breathtaking view point that would be worth the difficult journey.

So, she entered the path lab, shoulders squared and ready for the battle ahead.

If he were at his best, he would have sensed her presence long before she had announced herself. He was distracted, his eyes blank as he scanned over his notes, lost to the world. She hoped he was not lost to her aswell.

“Sherlock?” she said cautiously.

He jumped, looking up at her with surprise, and she caught the way his eyes brightened for a millisecond before he caught himself and schooled his face into a neutral expression.

“I wasn’t aware you were working the night shift,” he said with a frown, as if he disapproved.

“I’m just finishing up soon actually,” she answered defensively, her feet shifting.

“I see,” he said, scrabbling to shuffle his notes together. “I’ll just get going then.”

“No, stop. It’s okay,“ she said, and his whole body tensed, his hands stilling. “Stay.”

His head bowed.

“Coffee?” she blurted out.

He blinked up at her. “Sorry?”

“Coffee, do you want to have coffee?” Her mouth was running wild, and the alarming thud of her heart let her know she was making a right arse of this. “I don’t mean I’ll make it. I mean, do you want to have coffee with me? Together.”

It was after twelve at night, an ungodly hour for coffee. It was a strange proposal, and he had every right to refuse her. Instead, his eyes seemed melt before her, softening to a pale blue pool that she could drown in. “Of course,” he said.

She smiled softly, nerves fluttering as she led them both into uncharted waters.

——

Sherlock threw Molly down on the couch where she landed with a bounce, her jacket half off and her blouse askew, her hair an obvious disaster.

“Christ, Molly,” he panted.

Coffee had gone well.

Advancing on her with a hungry look in his eye, Sherlock dropped his own jacket and began to remove his belt while she shimmied out of her trousers. He observed her actions approvingly, sitting down beside her and then pulling her on top of him in a straddle. She caught his lips in a fierce kiss, savouring his moan on her tongue and the bittersweet taste of his sugary coffee. His palm came down hard on her bare arse and she whimpered at the pleasant sting, feeling his smirk against her mouth.

Coffee had gone very, very well.

She pulled back just an inch, her warm breath wafting over his curls, savouring the feel of his hands, one curled at her hip, the other burning flat on her back. It served to remind her of how real it all felt, that there was no way her mind could be playing any more cruel tricks on her. Or could there? Was this another blow she was to be dealt, to have him, only to have him stolen again when morning broke.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. His eyes darted over her features, hoping to read her.

“I’m scared that this isn’t real,” she said.

“Me too,” he said with a wry smile, swiping his thumb across her rosy cheek.

They’d faced fear before and conquered it together.They could do so again.

During their date, Sherlock had appeared so desperately nervous, so eager to hear her speak, that he hadn’t kissed her until the very last moment. He was so content to just talk to her - about cases, or her recent autopsies, the weather, _anything_ \- that he ended up waiting until they were at the doorway of her flat to brush his lips over hers in what was meant to be a sweet goodbye, a chaste kiss that was fitting to mark the end of a first date. That was not to be, as Molly had deepened the kiss and dragged him into the flat.

It seemed he was not the only one that struggled to say goodbye.

“Molly,” he said as his lips drifted over hers, his forehead pressed against hers. “I can wait. For however long it takes for you to trust me, to believe in me. To believe in _us_.”

It was a gut instinct she had followed; to give him this chance, to allow him complete possession of her heart and gain his in return. Her forgiveness was forged with a faith that Sherlock's feeling were not fleeting, and that his apologies and the guilt he felt for lying to her were sincere. Perhaps his feelings weren't as strong, or didn't quite have the depth of her own feelings, but she was sure they would grow and evolve with time. 

"I’ve always believed in you,” she said. “I love you, Sherlock. I always will. You must know that by now.” She sniffed loudly and wiped the stray tears from her cheeks with her hand, looking down at him. He was smiling strangely.

“What?” she asked.

“You still haven’t figured it out yet.”

“What?” she repeated with a jagged edge to her tone, dread flooding through her veins and stealing her breath.

He leaned towards her, sighing quietly, and tilted her chin down, looking at her with his pale eyes. “I’m in love with you too.”

Then he kissed her, softly, slowly, his tongue brushing hers, his hands caressing her face, causing a sweet ache to build in her chest. She never thought she would get this moment, but it seemed now it had been destined from the start. 

“Stay,” she whispered when they had broken apart. Her eyes slid shut, safe in the knowledge he would be there when she opened them again. 

Somehow, they had survived years of denied feelings and hurtful rejections, a consulting criminal, a faked death, an engagement each, a relapse, a bullet to the chest, an exile and a well meant lie that had ended up breaking both their hearts. The evidence spoke for itself, but Sherlock chose to confirm it anyway.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

It ended up being a good thing that neither of them could ever say goodbye to the other.

It meant that they would always come back to each other in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of this story and the ending!
> 
> I loved writing it and reading your lovely comments, so thank you all for reading.
> 
> (PS. I may or may be considering writing a one-shot follow up where Molly and Sherlock have a discussion about erotic dreams because I don't want to stop writing this story and just sherlolly smut in general)


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